


Not I

by canadduh



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Death, Gen, I do not own the lyrics to the song, I haven't read this since I wrote it, I was reading way to much Sherlock angst, I'm Sorry, I'm sorry for any errors, Major character death - Freeform, Not I by Audrey Auld Mezera, Songfic, Suicide, TW:Suicide, The song made me do it, This song tho, and I intended it to be sad, does that belong in the tag?, i am shit at tagging, tw: Graphic depictions of suicide, wow this is a lot sadder than I intended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 09:06:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6148530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canadduh/pseuds/canadduh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is actually gone this time and John finds that he doesn't know how to cope anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not I

_who will mourn you when you die?_   
_and cry and cry_   
_who will mourn you when you die?_   
_not i, not i_

  
He didn’t want to believe it. He couldn’t believe it. This had happened before and it hadn’t been true. His brain had stopped working the moment the words had left the mouth of the man on the other side of the call. They’d been through so much together. He and his best friend. But now his best friend was gone and he wasn’t sure how he was even supposed to cope with that. He’d lost people before, but never his other half. Never him.

_who will go inside your house?_   
_and moan and moan_   
_who will keep your memory close?_   
_not i, not i_

It was empty now and every step he took echoed mournfully, as though the house itself was feeling the loss of one of its occupants. He hadn’t left the house in days. He’d been going through old scrapbooks that he had put together one summer in hopes that one of the pictures would trigger some sort of a reaction. He just felt numb, nothing really mattered anymore. He was alone again, and this time there were no miracles.

_who will take your soul to keep?_   
_and pray and pray_   
_who will feel the sorrow deep?_   
_not i, not i_

He didn’t normally attend church. He wasn’t a religious person at all, sure he had believed in God at one point but in the last few months he had pretty much lost his faith in everything. It was only at the suggestion of one particularly worried friend that he’d even bothered to leave the house. He hadn’t known where he had been going but he’d somehow ended up seated on one of the uncomfortable pews with his hands clasped in front of him and his head bent in silent prayer.

_who will walk in the parade?_   
_and sing and sing_   
_who will light a candle flame?_   
_not i, not i_

He wasn’t sure how he had managed to get through to the end of the memorial service. It had been postponed until the killer was caught. And since the man had been tried and convicted it was decided that the memorial could finally happen. There were more people in attendance than he had thought there would be. He received many hugs and pats on the shoulder. He had exchanged a few words with the pastor and when it was time to take the casket from the church to the grave he had been placed in the front. Afterall, he had known the man better than anyone else. They had been best friends.

_who will throw a fist of dirt?_   
_on you on you_   
_who can wash away the hurt?_   
_not i, not i_

  
He’d turned to drinking. How could he not? Nothing else was helping him, not the string of what ended up being one night stands, not the visits to the therapist. The drinking was his last attempt to mitigate the numbness. He found it ironic that he was drinking to feel something, considering most people drank to forget. He wanted to feel something again. He hadn’t realized how much the death of his friend would affect him. He was broken and he didn’t think anything could save him this time.

_who will dance upon your grave?_   
_a crowd, a crowd_   
_who will stand still on your grave?_   
_not i, not i_

It had been one year. One whole year since the phone call that had destroyed him. Broken him into a million pieces that would be impossible to put back together into any sort of resemblance to the man he had once been. Honestly, he was disgusted with himself. He wasn’t even attempting to get better anymore. He was willing to let himself go and waste away. He’d had several visitors in the past year but had recently started to ignore them until they went away. There was nothing they could do for him anyways, he was past saving.

_who will ring the devil’s bell?_   
_in shame, in shame_   
_he’s the one who’ll say your name_   
_not i, not i_

He really didn’t have any other options. He’d known that for the past three months. The idea had popped into his head the day of the one year mark but he hadn’t wanted to act on it. He’d felt ashamed. He’d let himself waste away and there was really no excuse for it. So what if his only true friend had died, for reals this time. So what is he had been left alone again. So what if he didn’t have anyone there for him. He was a grown man and needed to act like it. Of course, though, he couldn’t do that. So he was making the next best decision.

It shouldn’t have been that hard to off oneself. He’d taken pills only to throw them up two hours later. He’d woken up only to wish that he had managed to choke on his vomit in his sleep. His next attempt was a little more elegant. One bullet to the head, that was all he needed. But the gun had jammed, leaving him feeling even more empty than he had before. His final attempt was all he needed. One rope hanging from the ceiling. He’d tested both the rope and the hold before slipping the rough material around his neck.

“Goodbye, Sherlock. See you soon.” He said before taking that final step into darkness, with only the gravestones to watch on.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you ever need to talk to someone please make sure you do.


End file.
